


Enjolras, Feuilly and the Great Roadtrip of 1832

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ...tagging in case someone is looking specifically for these portrayals, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Feuilly, M/M, Maybe Maybe Not, ND/Autistic Enjolras, Romance, Slow Burn, warnings for violence for later chapters, will there be character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-04-01 03:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: Enjolras and Feuilly survive the fall of the barricade and head eastwards - to Germany, and further on to Eastern Europe.Trying to cope with grief and culture shock they must get used to a life on the road - but at least they still have each other.





	1. Prologue - Le Havre

1832, June 7th, Le Havre

 

Rain was pouring down as a coach rattled towards the great docks of Le Havre.  It was four o’clock in the morning, and yet the port was alive with activity as fishing boats sailed in to get their haul to the market and passenger ships prepared for their voyages.

The coach slowed down, stopped for barely a second and was gone again. Those few who paid any attention to it could see two dark figures get off of it in a hurry and quickly disappear in the early morning mist. Should anyone have followed them, which nobody did, they would have seen them carefully make their way towards a tiny, rickety ship, one of the countless fishing boats decked and ready to go.

The taller of the two – a pale fellow whose long blond hair was starting to spill out from under his cap – spent some time engaged in deep conversation with the captain, his companion looking on in agitation. By the time they came to an agreement the rain let up, and the sky was starting to turn green and yellow in the East.

Not half an hour later another coach came dashing towards the docks, almost running over the unfortunate fishermen who scrambled to get out of its way. It jerked to a halt and five gendarmes spilled out of it, rushing off, mingling into the thickening crowd of the port.

The sun rose. Ships sailed in and sailed out, merchants and sailors went about their business without paying much attention to the policemen.

An hour passed.

Finally, not having found what they came for, the gendarmes gathered once again by their coach. They spent a couple of minutes discussing their fruitless search, then they boarded the coach and rode away with a distinct air of dejection about them.

Life went on in the harbour, indifferent to these proceedings.

The tiny boat with the two dark figures was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Hamburg

Feuilly was not much of a sailor. The only boat he’s ever set foot on before was a dignified bowl of a ferry that sailed the Seine and even that was verging on the end of his ship-tolerance. An yet here he was, getting tossed about on the waves of the North Sea for the second consecutive day, knowing full well that he will have to endure at least three more of them.

Despite it being June, he was cold – the sky was overcast and there was a constant, unrelenting wind that sprayed seawater at him and rolled swats of chilly mist. His only companion, Enjolras, seemed less perturbed by the weather. He was standing in the front of the ship, staring solemnly eastwards. He has been in the exact same position for hours.

Feuilly sighed and ducked into the small hold the captain – somewhat boastfully – called their cabin. It was a good thing they had a pre-set plan, agreed upon months ahead, because Enjolras wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information – or even conversation – since they left Paris.

Feuilly had no idea what happened to the rest of his friends after the catastrophic events of June 6th – which, in a way, was just as well. Long ago, Les Amis have divided themselves up in small groups of twos and threes. These groups were to come up with their own escape plans for the instance of just such a catastrophe, and never tell this plan the rest of the group. This way if someone was arrested, he couldn’t betray the whole group, even under duress.

It was a clever system, but right now it only made Feuilly feel all the more lonely.

He pulled up his bag and fished out a bit of sea-biscuit. He knew that he at least was currently headed towards Hamburg. He and Enjolras have made all the necessary arrangements beforehand that would bring them that far – forged documents, non-perishable food, money and spare clothing all neatly stowed away in a secret hideout only the two of them knew about, ready to be grabbed at a minute’s notice.

But after they got there? What then? He had no idea.

By the time night fell he was starting to have serious doubts if they would make it even that far.

The weather turned even worse. The wind picked up - by now it was roaring, rolling towering, angry waves. Water was splashing over the deck, the small boat crying and creaking – Feuilly was sure it would break in half any moment now. He was holed up in the small cabin that stank of fish, trying desperately to hold on to his measly lunch, and not to cry. Or at least not too loudly. He curled into a tiny ball, pressing his face into his knees.

He didn’t want to die.

Not like this.

He was so lost in despair it took him a moment to notice that there was a body pressed against his side and an arm wrapped around his shoulders. He pressed back into the embrace with a low whine. It was so dark he could only guess it was Enjolras by process of elimination – he seriously doubted the captain would cosy up to him like this. He squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face in the folds of Enjolras’ coat. Up close like this, he could hear his heartbeat and feel the slow, even rising and falling of his chest. He willed himself to concentrate on that and that alone and to match the even rhythm of his friend’s breathing.

By the time be calmed down a bit, so did the sea. Huddled up to Enjolras like this, he wasn’t even freezing anymore. With a deep sigh he burrowed into his friend’s embrace.

Maybe they would be all right after all.

 

***

 

The German shores sailed into view on the evening of the fifth day after they set out from Le Havre.

Enjolras payed the captain extra so that he would take them to shore outside the city, in a tiny bay used mostly by smugglers. It took him and Feuilly the better part of an hour to reach the city and one more to find an open inn.

So far he has been running on a pre-set script, unthinking, like an automaton, but now that they were out of immediate danger, that he had some time to relax and assess their situation and plan for the future he found his mind drawing blank. They’ve come this far, yes, but now what?

He had no answers. There was no point going on. He had no chance of returning to France any time soon – if ever. The rebellion failed. He was cut from his friends, cut from his resources, his connections, his country, and thus his chances of being useful.

As they settled into their room he felt the despair slowly pierce the cocoon of numbness he has been encased in ever since the fall of the barricade. He sank down on the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

He was no one and nothing now, and with each passing minute it felt more and more like trying to keep his meaningless little life just wasn’t worth the effort.

Enjolras felt the mattress dip as Feuilly sat down beside him.

Oh, yes. Feuilly. Feuilly, who was here only because Enjolras dragged him with him. He couldn’t go on but he couldn’t just abandon Feuilly like that. He was stuck, frozen in a numb, empty space.

He was vaguely aware of a patch of warmth on his back – Feuilly must have touched him there. It was nice. A small anchor of _something_ in this endless sea of nothing. Enjolras didn’t deserve it. He really, really didn’t and yet he pitched forward and to the side, propping his head against Feuilly’s chest and fisting his shirt. Reacting at once, his friend wrapped his arms around him tightly and put his chin on top of his head.

Feuilly was warm and solid and alive and Enjolras couldn’t let go of him, not on his life. It was superfluous, wanting to be held like this and it was reserved for men worthier than Enjolras.

The warm chest under his head hitched. Enjolras, jolted out of his musing realised that Feuilly was sobbing. He was crying and yet he was holding Enjolras, stroking his back, obviously trying to comfort him and Enjolras couldn’t do a damn thing to reciprocate. He should have been the one comforting Feuilly because Feuilly was good, he didn’t deserve to be sad and scared and lost and Enjolras couldn’t even move.

He couldn’t even cry with him.

After what seemed like an eternity Feuilly’s tears subsided. He leant back, blew his nose and fixed his questioning eyes on Enjolras.

‘So, what’s the plan?’

Well, there it was. No use pretending.

‘There is no plan.’

Even though Enjolras knew for a fact that Feuilly would never raise a hand against him he still fully expected him to hit him – he was so convinced he deserved it.

Instead Feuilly just shifted even closer and draped an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder.

‘That’s quite alright. We’ll make one up as we go.’

Enjolras bent his head. He had no answer.

‘First things first’ Feuilly went on ‘Should we set up shop here or should we move on?’

Enjolras frowned. This was a legitimate question.

‘I don’t believe we are fully out of the water yet’ he stated carefully ‘It is quite possible that we might run into French spies, and that we may yet be turned in, if only as a sign of twisted goodwill between the governments.’

‘So what shall it be? Do we go to England or head further East?’

Enjolras scooted backwards on the bed and leant against the wall. He could feel his mind whirl into action, making connections, calculating possibilities. This was good. Familiar. He may find his footing yet.

‘No matter the current relationship between the English king and our misbegotten Pear, the distaste the English would have for us may even be stronger than what I have for them. We could make it there if we tried hard enough, but, unless you’d really like to go, I wouldn’t bother.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I do’ said Feuilly, and then ducked his head ‘In all honesty… I was thinking Kraków, maybe?’

Enjolras fixed his eyes on the ceiling. The map of Europe slowly took shape in his mind.

‘We are right by the Elbe… could follow it for a while to the South and East… must abandon it at some point… by the time we reach Czech territories we may be safe enough to travel by coach if we still have the money… We can do it.’

He blinked, looking back down at Feuilly.

‘Kraków it is then.’


	3. The Elbe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for alcohol use.)

Morning came, bright and fresh, and by the time the Sun rose Enjolras and Feuilly were up and ready to go. To save some money they decided not to sail up all the way to Dresden, but to disembark at Anhalt-Dessau and go by foot from there on.  
  
…Of course before any of that could happen they had to find a boat that would take them. That task – as well as buying a map for the lands they intended to cross – awaited Enjolras, because Feuilly did not speak German. He found the language very strange – just enough like Yiddish to sound familiar, but different enough that he only understood a couple of words and phrases, and only if he paid close attention.  
  
Right now, standing around awkwardly at the docks by the Elbe, guarding their luggage, waiting for Enjolras, he felt like he was wrapped in cotton wool, which only a couple of words managed to penetrate. He sighed, drawing in the cool morning air. He could still feel the salty scent of the sea but it was now mixed with the slightly muddy smell of the river and the smell of fried fish from the nearby booths.  
  
He was so caught up in his thought he almost jumped out of his skin when a bread roll abruptly entered his line of vision. It was held by a hand, which was attached to an arm, which belonged to Enjolras, who was looking at him expectantly, head cocked, big eyes curious.  
  
Feuilly blinked and took the roll. It was cut in half, and had what seemed to be a small meatloaf stuffed inside it.  
  
‘Thank you. What’s this?’  
‘A Hamburg style sandwich. It’s beef’ said Enjolras ‘Supposedly.’  
  
Feuilly smiled a wry little smile and took a bite. Thankfully the contents were more meat than cartilage and skin, which was already more than he expected from any street food.  
Enjolras picked up his own bags and motioned for Feuilly to follow him. They boarded their boat in silence – it has a huge barge, drawn by a long line of oxen. They settled into their cabin and waited for departure – still in deep silence.

***

Technically, Feuilly has always known that Enjolras was only human. He knew he couldn’t possibly have a plan for every single situation life may throw their way.  
He knew that Enjolras was, despite his aloof, calm exterior, liable to be overwhelmed by emotion, and coped with such instances by withdrawing even further into himself. He would talk even less than usual, sometimes even actually go mute for a while, when he couldn’t speak even if he tried.  
  
Feuilly also knew that Enjolras cared about him deeply and would go great lengths to ensure his safety and well-being. Last summer, Feuilly had a nasty scare – in hindsight it was probably just a bad case of indigestion but for one long, horrible night he thought he was dying of cholera. At the very first signs of illness Enjolras had him brought to his own home and stayed with him throughout the whole ordeal.  
  
Feuilly knew all of this perfectly well – and yet here and now he couldn’t help but feel abandoned. Ever since they embarked, three days ago, all Enjolras did was sit in their small, stuffy cabin, wordlessly staring at the wall. At first Feuilly tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t sure whether he was even listening to him. Every now and then he received a hum or a nod as an answer, but nothing more. Besides, the conditions in the cabin were nearly unbearable – not much cooler than the scorching heat of the deck, and short on fresh air. And yet Enjolras refused to move.  
  
And so Feuilly, for his part, spent most of his time on the deck – too bright, too hot, but at least there was a constant breeze, and if he tried hard enough he even found some patches of shade. But being up on the deck also meant he ran into people constantly – people who tried to talk to him. In German. While Feuilly did understand certain words and phrases, he couldn’t hope to answer them properly. He tried his best to communicate by pantomime, but even so, most of the ship hands soon gave up on him – which not only left him embarrassed but also terribly bored – and all alone with his grief.  
  
Still, he could have lived with that, until the captain himself turned to him, and, by all appearances, wanted to discuss something important with him. Feuilly desperately signalled for the man to wait and raced down to their cabin, hoping his flailing gestures got his point across.  
  
When he pushed the door open, he found Enjolras in the exact same position he left him. He forced down a sharp sigh.  
  
‘Enjolras’ he said, trying hard to keep the frustration out of his voice ‘The captain is asking for something. Will you please help?’  
  
The man stood up, followed Feuilly up onto the deck in silence, translated the captain’s question and Feuilly’s answer – after which he returned to their cabin straight away.  
  
Feuilly wanted to scream. He took a deep breath and followed him. In the cabin he found Enjolras already back at his usual spot.  
Feuilly plopped down on his own cot, across from him.  
  
‘Enjolras. Please.’  
  
No answer.  
  
‘I know this is hard on you. I know you’d rather not talk. But please understand… this is… it’s hard for me too. And right now I’m lost without you.’  
  
Enjolras dropped his eyes. For a long moment he continued to sit in silence, but then he drew a deep breath and turned to Feuilly.  
  
‘I apologise. I did not mean to cause you distress. Please call upon me when you want to talk to someone.’  
  
Feuilly swallowed heavily against the lump in his throat.  
  
‘I do need you.’

***  
  
Things improved only marginally from then on. Enjolras continued to spend his days in stony silence, but at least he moved from his cabin up onto the deck and would come over and translate for Feuilly when he was called. Other than that he would stare into the water all day with such a look that Feuilly feared he would pitch forward and throw himself into it.  
  
Feuilly, for his part, was still supremely bored. There was nothing to read, nothing to do, and chatting with the sailors took too much effort. So he did the only thing he could – spent most of the day staring out at the scenery. This at least was mildly entertaining. He was a city boy, always had been, the only time he ever spent in the countryside was when he moved from Toulouse to Paris as a young teenager. But the land was mostly flat, a patchwork of woodland, meadows and neatly kept fields. The weather was alternating between unpleasantly hot and unbearably hot – Feuilly noticed Enjolras was developing angry red patches on his cheeks and nose from the sun. It must have been painful, but Feuilly wasn’t sure Enjolras was even aware of it.  
  
The voyage was supposed to last two weeks. Only one has passed. Feuilly wasn’t sure how he was going to survive the rest.

***

Enjolras was, once again, leaning against the railing of the boat, surveying the shore. Dawn was breaking, the first rays of light gently caressing the calm waters of the Elbe – a stark contrast to the commotion on the quay.  
  
A merchant, a short, chubby man was ordering about the sailors and a handful of what appeared to be his own men. Perched on a box, puffing up his chest he looked like a general ruling over his army. After a lot of shouting and waving his arms about, when he finally got his men to arrange all his goods to his satisfaction he strutted on board, inspecting his new realm. He found the boat to his liking, which he expressed by a gracious nod to the captain, twirled his magnificent moustache and disappeared in the hold.  
Enjolras watched the scene with detached amusement. As the ship sailed out again, setting out on what was meant to be the last stage before Dessau, Feuilly emerged from under the board. He was in a foul mood, only greeting Enjolras with a tight little smile and a nod. He propped his elbows on the railing beside Enjolras and stared out morosely at the shore. Enjolras scooted closer to him, bumping their shoulders together.  
  
‘Looks like we have a regular Napoléon on board.’  
‘Oh?’  
‘A Slovak linen merchant, just boarded right now. Looks like quite the character.’  
  
Feuilly may or may not have been interested in their new fellow passenger, but he at least appreciated Enjolras’ attempt at small talk, and rewarded him with a brighter, warmer smile. He pulled himself upright and drew a deep breath of the fresh morning air.  
  
‘It looks to be a nice day. Warm and bright.’  
  
Enjolras nodded. He couldn’t quite place what changed, exactly, but the tight knot in his chest eased up a little bit. He found it a lot easier to talk – he took to following Feuilly around the deck, helping him chat with the sailors instead of only coming over to translate when his friend was hopelessly stuck.  
  
It came as a bit of a surprise that they only crossed paths with Slovak Napoléon by sundown.  
  
He was busy fussing over his wares – one of the boxes was slightly dented when it was brought on board.  
  
‘Can you believe it?’ he turned to Feuilly in lieu of greeting ‘They broke it! They broke the box!’  
  
He was speaking German, so Enjolras came to his friend’s rescue. He bent down to inspect the object in question.  
  
‘It doesn’t look like such a huge crack. Unless you’re carrying flour or gunpowder in there you should be fine, at least until Dessau. I’m sure you can replace the box there.’  
  
It wasn’t the right thing to say – the merchant puffed up, his moustache bristling with righteous anger.  
  
‘That is not the point! They should have handled it with care! I specifically told them to! Now what if my clothes get water damage? Do you think I have time to get everything laundered in Dessau? No sir! I’m expected at Dresden, I have no time for delays just because some clumsy ship hand couldn’t properly lift a box!’  
  
Feuilly – who, while he had trouble stringing together sentences could glean the grist of the tirade – waved a dismissive hand and, leaning closer to the merchant murmured in a contemptuous tone:  
  
‘Niemców*.’  
  
This single word of commiseration was enough to completely change the man’s attitude towards them.  
  
‘Right? Right? Centre of the bloody universe, that’s what they think they are! Think they can toss my cargo about just like that, that’s what they think!’  
  
He finished his outburst with a long-suffering sigh.  
  
‘And you, gentlemen? Where do you come from?’  
  
‘Paris, France’ said Enjolras, and held out his hand ‘René Enjolras, pleased to meet you.’  
  
‘Oh, you’re French? Excellent! Solid folks, that. Bit excitable but quite excellent’ the merchant was so incensed against the poor German ship hand, he was, at the moment, perfectly willing to embrace the sons of any other nation as his brothers. He clasped Enjolras’ hand enthusiastically ‘Jozef Medvec, the pleasure is mine!’  
  
He shook hands with Feuilly too.  
  
‘Excellent.’ he said, beaming with satisfaction ‘Come, gentlemen, let me share my supper with some civilised folks!’  
  
Enjolras offered to add their own supplies to the table, but Master Medvec was having none of it. He served up nice, soft bread, salty cottage cheese and onions. And a huge bottle of clean liquid – of which he poured a shot for all of them.  
  
‘Bottoms up, gentlemen! To the health of… whoever is your king right now. Or did you chop of this one’s head too?’  
  
Thankfully he was too amused by his own joke to notice his new friends’ sour expression and quickly tossed back the shot. Enjolras and Feuilly followed suit.  
  
Enjolras could feel his eyes bulge out as the liquid burned its way down his throat. He hoped his own grimace was just a little less extreme than Feuilly’s who has doubled over and was coughing harshly.  
  
Master Medvec was beaming with pride.  
  
‘Nice and strong, isn’t it? My brother’s own brew!’  
‘May I ask’ Enjolras gasped when he finally regained his breath ‘What is this?’  
‘Slivovica, of course!’  
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had that before’ Enjolras croaked ‘What is it made of?’  
‘Plum and love, my friend! Come, have some more!’  
‘I really shouldn’t…’  
The merchant’s face clouded over.  
‘Is it not good then?’  
‘Very good!’ Feuilly injected hastily.  
‘Well then!’  
  
Master Medvec poured a new round and watched with a smile as his guests tossed back the shots. Two rounds became three, and by the time they finished their meal Feuilly was ranting about Poland and Napoleon.  
  
‘Right, right?’ said Master Medvec, nodding enthusiastically ‘That Bonaparte! Bad for business, he was very bad for business is all I can say!’  
  
Enjolras waved his hand in contempt – and watched slightly concerned as it flew way further than he intended it to. It also occurred to him that last he checked Feuilly didn’t speak German, not so fluently anyway. He shrugged and turned to the merchant.  
  
‘Buonaparte – ‘he began, and paused immediately. Putting sounds in the right order to form words took a lot more effort than he remembered.  
‘Buonaparte’ he started again ‘Was a tyrant and a murder- murdererer. Is what he was. He built his empire on the ashes of the most… the most glorious…’  
‘Well said, well said!’ Medvec shouted, patting Enjolras on the back, pouring him another drink. Enjolras tossed it back without hesitation. He noted with some interest that Medvec’ features turned slightly watery and unfocused.  
  
‘The Habsburgs are a disgrace too!’ said Feuilly – or at least that’s what Enjolras thought he must have said. He was beginning to think he was forgetting German just as Feuilly seemed to have learned it. Medvec was simultaneously hushing Feuilly and agreeing with him and Enjolras really, truly wanted to speak up to ask him to be more cautious but…  
  
When he blinked awake the next morning, for a few blissful seconds he was merely disoriented, but the moment he tried to move a headache assaulted him with such vicious force he had to squeeze his eyes shut against it. When he got his bearings enough to at least assess his situation, he concluded that he was still sitting by Medvec’ table, with a blanket tucked around his shoulders. His head felt as if someone replaced his brain with a mix of lead, tiny blades and cotton, his mouth tasted funny and his stomach was clearly plotting something unseemly. There was a loud creak behind him – he tried to turn to look, but Master Medvec got into the room and around the table to come stand in front of him quicker than he could turn around.  
  
‘There, you don’t look any better than your friend’ he tutted, looking somewhat sheepish ‘I’m so sorry! I forgot you were foreigners and wouldn’t be able to hold your liqueur…’  
Enjolras had half a mind to argue – this broad generalisation clearly sullied the honour of Grantaire, Joly, and, in all honesty, most of his friends – but that would have meant he had to open his mouth and had he done that, words wouldn’t have been the only things to come out, he knew. He elected to merely nod.  
Medvec leant forward and patted him on the shoulder.  
  
‘You’ll be just fine! Though I’d tell your friend not to badmouth the Habsburgs too loudly. They deserve it of course, but, you know. People might object. It’s open season for Bonaparte, focus on him!’  
  
Enjolras nodded again, this time arranging his features into what he hoped was a grateful smile.  
  
He staggered up to the deck on legs that were very reluctant in their cooperation. He found Feuilly leaning over the railing, staring into the water. He startled when Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
‘If we ever see the others again’ Feuilly muttered ‘We do not tell them about this night. Ever. We are such lightweights, it’s a disgrace!’  
  
Enjolras shook his head and smiled.  
  
‘Agreed. This stays between us!’  
  
For a moment, they contemplated the water gently sliding away under the ship. After a while, Enjolras turned to Feuilly again.  
  
‘Say, when did you learn to speak German? I can’t say I understood everything you said, but that might have been the booze.’  
  
Feuilly blinked at him, frowned a bit – and then smiled widely.  
  
‘Yiddish’ he said ‘I was speaking Yiddish the whole night.’

***  
They finally sailed in to Dessau.   
  
Enjolras sighed. He must not appear scared, lest he make Feuilly lose heart. His poor friend was already having a hard enough time.  
  
He squared his shoulders and disembarked, ready to face the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Germans  
> It's in Polish, but it sounds similar enough in Slovak - Medvec would understand it.


	4. Saxony

Feuilly had mixed feelings. When they disembarked, they were faced with a cluster of forest-covered hills, which led him to believe this would be the sort of terrain they would be dealing with. Enjolras also seemed to be under this impression – which, after they climbed a couple of medium-sized hills, proved to be a mistake. The landscape unfolding in front of them was a well-kept patchwork of fields and grasslands.

Feuilly was glad – he didn’t trust forests. They were full of wild animals, robbers and who knows what else, and the only weapons they had were a knife for each and a gun for Enjolras.

His happiness lasted until about noon. If he thought being stuck on the barge was unpleasant, having to walk under the summer sun, laden with their overstuffed bags, without even the constant breeze they had on the river to aid them was downright hellish. Before long, he could feel his shirt getting soaked through with sweat.

At about two o’ clock, when the heat was at its worse, they gave up and retreated into the meagre shade a small cluster of trees provided by the roadside. Feuilly let his bags fall to the ground and flopped down gracelessly beside them. After he drank enough to at least be able to speak, he turned to Enjolras.

‘So, Leipzig, was it?’

Enjolras nodded.

‘Yes. We’re still in Brandenburg*, but we should be leaving it behind very soon. After that, we cross over to Saxony.’

‘Weren’t there supposed to be mountains here?’

‘Not yet’ Enjolras started to peel off his overcoat and vest ‘I thought the terrain would get rough already, but no – the Ore Mountains are still a long way away.’

Feuilly scratched his chin.

‘That would be the border between Saxony and Bohemia, yes?’

‘Exactly.’

With that, Enjolras tossed his cravat to the ground. Feuilly followed his example, relieved to be rid of at least some of his layers. Propriety and the June weather, especially on a dusty country road, did not mix well. He pushed himself off of the ground and went to sit with his back against a tree. Enjolras plopped down beside him.

Feuilly shot him a sideways glance.

‘I wish I brought a book.’

Enjolras blinked slowly and turned towards him.

‘Are your bags not heavy enough?’

Feuilly huffed but then smiled his wry smile.

‘Heavy but no less boring. I wish I could at least read up on the history of the region. I only know the bare minimum.’

‘I’m sure that’s already way more than what I know. Tell me about it?’

‘I can’t say I know much more than what you must also – we’re still in a Prussian province, about to cross over to the Kingdom of Saxony. Once we’re there I’m not sure we should be so quick to put down Napoleon, though. At first they sided with him you know – and even though they got cold feet eventually, a good chunk of their land was still torn off and given to Prussia after 1815.’

Enjolras closed his eyes and hummed.

‘And of course Bohemia, over the mountains, is firmly Habsburg territory.’

‘So it is, but just like the Hungarians, the Czechs there are starting to find their voice and sense of identity’ said Feuilly with a grin.

After a while they had to set out again. The sun bore down on them as they trudged on in silence. The dust they kicked up from the dry road hung in a small cloud around their feet and settled on their clothes. The landscape, pretty as it was, didn’t hold their attention. Now and then they met a group of peasants who worked in the fields. They hurried past them, only nodding in greeting when they were spotted, though they rarely were. The people were quite content to mind their own business.

It was only when the sun almost reached the horizon that either man had the will to speak. Once they did though, the words came easily and plentiful, like a river that finally broke across a dam. Feuilly recounted the observations he’s made while on the boat regarding the lands they crossed – he was no Jean Prouvaire, but he was still an artist, and painted the countryside as one would, with his words. Later he launched into an account of the Czech nationalist movement – a defiant pushback against the Habsburg uniformisation – the resurgence of language and literature it brought. Enjolras listened to him with a small smile.

By now they must have been in Saxony – thankfully, this being a small country road, barely more than a trail, they didn’t run into any soldiers or bureaucrats, or any official-looking checkpoint.

Nightfall found them by the edge of a thicket. They quickly whipped up a small fire and huddled down beside it to eat. Enjolras looked content – hard as it was to tell with his habitually calm, impassive face – but Feuilly was growing uneasy. He knew perfectly well that at some point they will have to spend the night outdoors, but he was quietly hoping that the day would come only a lot later. He hated sleeping in open spaces. He had more than enough of it back in the day, as an orphan in the streets of Toulouse. Never again, he promised himself, and kept to it as best as he could – the smaller and more securely enclosed the space, the better he slept.

He would not have the comfort of a roof tonight.

He pressed closer to Enjolras and kept his eyes on the fire, trying not to think about the open, boundless darkness around him, not even a thin door between him and the dangers it held. Enjolras, whether because he sensed Feuilly’s discomfort or because he was seeking shelter himself, wound an arm around him and gently guided his head to lay on his shoulder. Feuilly snuggled into his side and tried to focus on his breathing like he had on the boat on the sea. Enjolras began to hum, low and deep and slightly off-key – eyes growing heavy, Feuilly wondered for a moment between the disconnect of such a soft, feminine face and the relatively deep voice that belonged to it. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, fears forgotten.

Come morning, he found himself curled up on his side, head on Enjolras’ lap, a thin blanket spread over them both. Above him, Enjolras was staring into the remains of the fire, seemingly in the exact same position as he was before Feuilly fell asleep.

‘Please don’t tell me you spent the entire night awake’ said Feuilly, rubbing his stiff neck.

‘You were tired.’

Feuilly rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they stayed in their sockets.

‘And you? Were you not?’

Enjolras looked away.

‘I did not have the heart to wake you.’

A mixture of warmth and exasperation bubble up in Feuilly’s chest.

‘That is very kind of you’ he said ‘But you need to take better care of yourself. Please.’

Enjolras had the decency to look a little sheepish. He nodded and clambered to his feet, hissing as he willed his locked-up legs to cooperate.

‘Very well.’

They gathered their belongings and set out. The morning air was fresh and fragrant, and despite the overstuffed bags weighting down their backs they picked up the conversation where they left off yesterday. The terrain was still mostly flat and they advanced easily – that is, until at about ten o’clock when the sun decided that enough leisure was enough, and started to roast them in earnest.

So far Feuilly didn’t really think such a place as Hell existed, but he was quickly coming to think otherwise. It definitely existed and it was right here and now. He had to stop to take off his overcoat and – even though there was virtually no place to put it anymore – stuff it into his bag, otherwise he feared he would keel over simply because his brain got boiled in his head. Enjolras bore his fate in silence, but his face was shiny with sweat and his nose and cheeks were quickly turning into the angry reddish pink of an overcooked lobster.

It felt like divine deliverance when they finally spotted a canal. It was flowing docilely between its straight, business-like banks, gentle and domestic, obviously manmade, lined with some willow trees. By the time Feuilly reached it his shirt was already off. Forgetting all notions of modesty he kicked off his trousers and crawled into the water. It wasn’t very deep – Feuilly found out that sitting down he was only immersed up to his neck. He sighed deeply in relief, closed his eyes and let the cool water lap at his skin.

A small yelp yanked him back to reality. Enjolras has already shed his clothes too, and was carefully edging into the stream, but he must have slipped on the wet grass. Now he was standing awkwardly on the bank, one leg dangling into the water, hanging on to a fistful of weeds. Feuilly sniggered, stood up and walked over to him. He took him by the arm and helped him down into the water. He kept a hand on his back as Enjolras found his footing on the slimy stones of the bottom. When he finally did, he sank down into the waves with a grateful sigh. Feuilly let him go with a reluctance that caught him by surprise.

He plopped back down and turned back to look at Enjolras. He was sitting with his eyes closed, just like Feuilly had been a moment before, and by all appearances just as blissed out. On a cheeky impulse Feuilly splashed a handful of water at him. Enjolras blinked his big, blue eyes open and looked at him with a mixture of confusion and hurt. Feuilly quickly held up his hands and ducked his head in apology – no game was fun when only one participant enjoyed it. Enjolras smiled a little – apology accepted – and closed his eyes again.

After a while – impossible as he thought this would be – the water started to feel too cold. Feuilly clambered clumsily out of it, found a comfortable-looking grassy patch and stretched out to dry. Enjolras followed a couple of moments later. Naked like this, he looked a little less like a cold marble statue and more like an actual human. A wobbly little tummy, freckles on his chest, even some stretch-marks on his tights. As he laid down beside Feuilly, arms flung over his eyes to shield them from the sun, his pale stomach was almost blinding in the harsh light. Feuilly tore his eyes away with some difficulty.

It was nice, lounging about like this, and Feuilly would have gladly remained in this exact spot, pretending, just for a little while, that the rest of the world with all its woes and problems didn’t exists. Unfortunately this couldn’t be, and soon enough they had to get up and – however reluctantly – get going again.

***

The land rolled out before them again, like a patched-up plaid. The terrain was getting ever-so-slightly rougher, but still no mountains were to be seen. It took them three more days and three nights to get to Leipzig – two of the nights they spent sleeping rough, one in a small roadside inn. They were both anxious to save money, after all Kraków was still an awful long way away. That said, they were both relieved when they finally reached the city, late in the afternoon, looking forward to a hot meal and a proper bed.

…But of course they had to find said proper bed first, and ideally a cheap one, no small challenge in an unfamiliar place. After asking for some pointers from locals Enjolras navigated them to the marketplace. There they had to stop for a while because by all appearances Feuilly’s feet rooted to the ground – he was admiring the architecture, gape-mouthed and starry-eyed. Enjolras gently pulled him out of the way of a group of passers-by and looked around too.

The houses here were different from the ones he saw in his earlier travels in the Northern German states – no sign of those outside, wooden skeletons that made the buildings look like they were built up from blocks. These had elaborate, ornate Baroque facades and arcades at their bases. Enjolras himself couldn’t care less about all this, but on some level he understood why an artist would.  

Finally he shrugged and took Feuilly by the arm. The buildings may have been pretty, but they would not feed or shelter them – the market itself have closed up and there was no inn in sight. After a brief deliberation the pair strayed from the marketplace and set out to explore some smaller streets. The sun was almost touching the horizon now – soon it would be dark. The streets were getting empty as the citizens all headed home, if they didn’t flag down someone right now, they wouldn’t even be able to ask for direction anymore. Windows were lighting up, one after the other. Enjolras was furiously trying to assess their situation and come up with the ideal course of action when Feuilly suddenly tapped his arm.

‘Look!’

He was pointing at a small shop, wedged under the arcades of a nearby building. The sign was painted in Hebrew letters – Enjolras supposed this must have been what caught Feuilly’s eyes – and while the text meant nothing to him, the display window spoke for itself. It was some sort of a grocery shop.

‘Should we go in?’ Feuilly asked ‘We’re going to need supplies for the journey anyway.’

Enjolras agreed – keen as he was on saving money, they were indeed running out of food.

Their entrance startled the shopkeeper who was already tidying up for the night. He eyed them with some understandable wariness – two rough-looking men in dirty clothing, entering just before closing time – but his apprehension evaporated when Feuilly greeted him in Yiddish. He smiled and leaned over the counter to get a better look at his costumers.

Feuilly put down his bag and asked him a few questions. The shopkeeper answered gladly, though they must have been speaking slightly different dialects because their conversation involved a lot of embarrassed laughter and some pantomime. Enjolras strained to pick up what was said – now he understood how Feuilly must have felt on the barge. Yiddish and German sounded superficially similar, Enjolras could even understand individual words, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t follow the conversation properly. He let his bag drop to the ground, hoping his low whine of relief wouldn’t reach Feuilly and busied himself with surveying the shop. It was half a grocery store, half a tabak, selling everything from bread, flour and vegetables to matches and candy. The shelves were all neatly stacked and labelled, accurately systematized from the essentials up to the small luxury goods. He was eyeing a bright red lolly shaped like a rooster when he noticed the sudden silence. When he turned to see what happened he found the other two looking at him expectantly.

‘Ahh, I’m so sorry, I was just… Were you talking to me, sir?’

The shopkeeper – who has rounded his counter to come and stand by Feuilly – shook his head with a good-natured smile and repeated his question in German.

‘It’s quite all right. I just asked if you too were also going all the way to Kraków?’

‘Ah yes, we’re travelling together.’

The man nodded and then with a soft little gasp – as if he suddenly remembered something – turned back to Feuilly. He switched back to Yiddish, said something that sounded vaguely apologetic and then held out his hand.

‘Ansel Bernstein.’

That at least Enjolras could also understand. He waited for Feuilly to introduce himself and then stepped forward to shake Master Bernstein’s hand himself. The shopkeeper looked that them thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally he turned back to Feuilly and asked him something.

Whatever he said, it made Feuilly gasp a little and his eyes go wide. His gaze flitted between Bernstein and Enjolras, cautiously hopeful. After a moment of indecision he sidled up to Enjolras.

‘Master Bernstein invited me for evening prayer at his shul.’ he said in French ‘I would like to go, but I don’t want to leave you alone…’

Enjolras considered his options – he also didn’t like the idea of being separated from his companion, but the proposal seemed harmless enough, and if it made Feuilly happy he was all in favour of it.

‘Very well. You can leave me with the bags.’

Feuilly smiled at him. And it wasn’t as if he had never smiled at Enjolras before, but it felt like the first time he ever truly noticed it. He smiled back and quickly turned away, leaving Feuilly and Bernstein to discuss the details.

A little while later, after they left Bernstein to close up his shop and found Enjolras a bench under a street lamp to wait on, Feuilly threw a quick glance around and said:

‘In case anyone asks, I’m going to Kraków to see if I can find my father’s family there. You are a friend who was reluctant to let me face such a long journey alone.’

‘Understood.’

While it was unlikely that Master Bernstein or anyone from his congregation would care about the state of the French government one way or another, admitting to being dangerous rebel-rousers wanted by the law was never a good idea.

Feuilly left and Enjolras settled down to wait. He was slightly uneasy. He was still angry at himself for letting his guard down around the Slovak merchant so easily and even though the encounter ended happily, there was no way for Enjolras to know in advance that Master Medvec’ overenthusiastic, cheerful hospitality was genuine and he cursed himself for allowing himself to be charmed by it. He felt like he was committing the same mistake again, and if he kept this up, sooner or later he would pay for it.

Even so, he couldn’t think of a way Bernstein could possibly benefit from harming Feuilly. Besides, even if Feuilly gave his trust easier than Enjolras, he had a good enough sense of self-preservation. Enjolras shook his head and tried to focus on the next stage of journey. Feuilly would be just fine.

He was so deep in contemplating the crossing of the Ore mountains he completely lost track of the time. It was only Feuilly’s return that jolted him out of his thoughts. The little artist had a new spring in his step and a serene smile on his face – and was accompanied by Master Bernstein.

‘Monsieur Enjolras’ the shopkeeper greeted him with a twinkle in his eye ‘Master Feuilly here told me about your lodging situation. Or rather the lack of it. So I thought to myself, why not help a fellow out? Surely you two could use a square meal and I have a guest room. You could spend the night there if you wished.’

Enjolras felt his jaw go slack – he just caught it in time to keep it from hanging open. He looked quickly over at Feuilly, who smiled back at him and nodded.

‘We are honoured. Truly sir, we couldn’t be more grateful!’

They were offered a chance to clean up and a place at the dinner table. The family lived modestly, and as they weren’t expecting guests the lady of the house did not really have a chance to flash her culinary prowess – a fact she lamented to her husband, and with which Enjolras and Feuilly couldn’t agree any less. Granted they were hungry and haven’t had a hot meal in a long while, but the potato soup and parties they were given seemed better than the feast of any king.

Later, after profusely thanking their hosts, huddled in the guest room, Enjolras took some time to contemplate their day. It seemed like the risk of trusting a friendly stranger has paid off again. He was honestly surprised – even though he had immense faith in the goodness of humanity as an abstract entity, his experience with individuals has been… less rosy, frankly. But he was willing to take this change of pace.

Feuilly was slumbering mere inches away from him. He hadn’t had the chance to shave since they ran from Paris, and over time his stubble grew into a small beard. It was dark, straighter than his hair but still a little wavy – and it emphasised his lips in a way Enjolras found oddly fascinating. He only realised he had reached out to touch them when his fingers were a centimetre away from them. He quickly withdrew his hand and ran his fingers over his own chin instead – smooth as ever.

He turned his back on Feuilly and tried his best to sleep. It took him a long while to achieve it.

***

The next day they waved goodbye to the Bernstein family and set out, well-fed and well-rested, and more optimistic than they have been since they sailed out from Le Havre. The ground was steadily elevating now, patches of forest interrupting the carefully tilled fields more and more often.

The weather turned volatile – quick, violent showers would come, whip the land with heavy, cold downpours of rain and then disappear without a trace. Feuilly was almost grateful for them because it meant Enjolras was more willing to stop and seek out inns even in smaller villages they crossed, instead of risking getting drenched in the night, when they wouldn’t dry so easily. While this meant that sometimes they had to stop earlier and covered less ground than they would have if they planned to sleep rough, it also saved Feuilly from having to admit to Enjolras out loud how much the thought of sleeping in a forest terrified him.

Slowly the mountains loomed up on the horizon.

Feuilly noticed that Enjolras has been in a peculiar mood as of late. Since they set out of Leipzig he has been alternating between staring at Feuilly and zoning out with a faraway look on his face.

Finally taking pity on him he beckoned him closer.

‘Something is troubling you, I can tell.’

Enjolras looked at him, before averting his eyes.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s troubling me, I just noticed something about you I never have before. I don’t understand how I could not see it till now.’

‘Oh?’

‘You are beautiful.’

Feuilly stared for a long moment, then quickly ducked his head. Heat was rushing into his face. Right now he was unspeakably thankful for his brown skin, for it made his blush somewhat harder to notice. Enjolras’ admission, blunt as it was, wasn’t entirely unexpected or - if Feuilly was to be completely honest with himself - unwelcome. Still, it took him a couple of moments to recover enough to react at all.

After a long internal struggle he finally managed a squeaky little ‘Really?’.

‘Really’ said Enjolras ‘Your eyes are your most striking feature, all black and shiny, almost like jet. But always warm and…’

He shook his head.

‘I’m not much of a poet. I wish I were though. Just your fine hands deserve a sonnet all on their own.’

Feuilly laughed a little, treading the fingers of said fine hands through Enjolras’ own.

‘You are kind, though I’m hardly a subject worthy of sonnets.’

Enjolras cocked his head to the side.

‘First of all: you are. No question about that. And second: sonnets are perfectly democratic. The best of them were written by the son of a glove-maker**. Who’s to say then, that a valiant fan-painter cannot be their subject?’

Feuilly had no words for that. He did not need any, Enjolras just smiled at him and walked on. Feuilly waited for him to go on, either to tell him more or to dance back, but it seemed Enjolras wasn’t going to bring up the topic again. Next time he spoke up – a couple of hours later – he asked Feuilly about his opinion on the future of locomotive railways. Feuilly was torn between gratitude and disappointment but he jumped on the topic with gusto.

The weather was getting steadily worse. By the time they reached Chemnitz it was raining constantly and the temperature dropped uncomfortably low. This time they found an inn with relative ease and settled in. They decided to stay for a couple of days, to rest and re-group before tackling the mountains. Feuilly secretly hoped the rain would also let up.

It did not, at least not by the next day. The two men used their new-found free time to clean up, wash their clothes – Feuilly even got rid of his beard. They spent most of the day bent over maps, weighing options. By the afternoon Feuilly got antsy – he was in an entirely new city, he wanted to see it! He left Enjolras in their room and set out to explore. He strolled around for a while, got lost, asked for directions in a clumsy mix of French, German and Yiddish, found a little river, got lost again. The rain was falling harder and harder - exactly paralleling the rate in which Feuilly was regretting his decision.

By the time he found the inn again, he was soaking wet. Thankfully Enjolras made a good fire before going to bed, so all Feuilly had to do was peel off his wet clothes and spread them out on the floor in front of it.

He was shivering uncontrollably – July or not, the unrelenting rain brought a chill to the air. He quickly dove under the covers, hoping not to disturb Enjolras… but he did manage to accidentally touch him with his icy cold feet.

The man hissed and rolled over to face Feuilly. He reached out and pulled Feuilly into him, tucked his hands under his arms, rubbed at his back and shifted upwards so Feuilly could comfortably press his nose into his warm chest. Enjolras had a shirt on, so, out of the two, at least he wasn’t completely naked. Not that Feuilly would have cared much right now – Enjolras was warm and he didn’t scream or kick him out of the bed after coming in contact with the blocks of ice Feuilly had for limbs, and that was all Feuilly could have asked for. If this was going to be awkward in the morning – well, let his future self deal with it.

This future self of his, when he woke up next morning, found himself to be too royally comfortable to worry much. He woke up facing Enjolras, who still had his long limbs wrapped around him, and who was blinking sleepy, unfocused eyes at him.

Feuilly’s arms were trapped between the two of them, so he shifted about until he had one pushed under the pillow, and the other draped over Enjolras’ ribs. His friend let out a small, appreciative hum and scooted even closer, close enough to press their foreheads together.

Feuilly closed his eyes and smiled. He could get used to mornings like this – no rush, no imminent danger, just warm sheets and the touch of his favourite person…

He felt Enjolras’ hand sliding up to cup his shoulder and the tip of his nose touching his own. His smile grew wider and he leant forward and nuzzled him. Enjolras straight up giggled at that – it was a strange sound, coming from the usually stoic, serious man, but also one Feuilly wouldn’t have minded hearing more often. He opened his eyes and leant back a little.

Theoretically, he’d always known Enjolras was beautiful, but for a long while this only registered with Feuilly as the beauty of statues – something to be admired from afar. Only for the eyes, not for the touch. But now, up close like this, within arms’ reach, he was beautiful in a much more intimate way. Feuilly reached out and brushed a white-blond strand out of his friend’s face, watched as his long lashes fluttered shut, as he leant a little into his touch and as his plump, rosy lips turned up into a serene little smile.

Feuilly kissed him. It was just a tiny peck, but it still pushed his heart into his throat. For a long moment, Enjolras fixed his big, blue eyes on him, then slowly scooted closer and softly, carefully – so carefully – pressed their closed lips together. Then he laid back and smiled a giddy, proud smile at Feuilly, as if he’d just accomplished some great feat. Feuilly couldn’t help but grin back at him.

 

***

The weather was getting a little better. Rain was still coming and going, but it wasn’t falling in a constant, uninterrupted downpour. Even the sun would come out every now and then.

After that first kiss Feuilly, again, half hoped half feared that everything would change between them – but it did not. Only Enjolras would turn a little pink when they held each other’s eyes for a beat too long, and he grew a little bit bolder with his touches. He would keep his hand on Feuilly’s arm or press up against his side when they sat and talked, but that was it. Feuilly did not press him – to the best of his knowledge Enjolras never loved before, not a man or a woman. He would let him come to terms with his new feelings at his own pace.

It was decided they would spend one more night at the inn and set out for the mountains the next morning.

Feuilly was more anxious than he cared to admit, but he tried to focus on the moment. No matter what dangers tomorrow held, tonight at least he was still safe. The door was locked, the bed slightly rickety but by and large comfortable, he was well fed and Enjolras was holding him close.

Feuilly was beginning to drift off. The warmth of the bed and the comforting weight of Enjolras pressed to his side were lulling him to sleep… When suddenly he snapped back into reality.

At first he couldn’t even place how or why, but after a couple of seconds he noticed a strange, mildly ticklish sensation at his chest. He peered down along his nose, praying for it not to be some pest from the seedy inn…

It was Enjolras. He found the patch where Feuilly’s shirt fell open and was now fiddling with the small, curly hairs there. He picked at an individual curl, gently pulled it straight and watched it bounce back.

He was evidently enthralled by this activity.

Feuilly turned his eyes skyward, biting his lower lip, trying his best not to laugh.

When Feuilly awoke, he found Enjolras already up and about, pacing the room with long strides. Feuilly propped himself up on his elbow to watch him – Enjolras went on without noticing him, caught up in his own little world. He paced the length of the room, turned around with a twirl, reached the other end, twirled again. Feuilly noticed that with each round the distance covered became shorter and the twirl longer, and before long, Enjolras was just spinning around in the middle of the room, arms flung out, grinning, obviously enjoying himself.

Feuilly sat up in the bed, which caused Enjolras to finally notice him and to stop so abruptly he almost toppled over.

‘Well, hello there René!’ said Feuilly, smiling.

‘Ah. Hello to you too.’ Enjolras answered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

‘There’s no need to stop on my account. Were you dancing?’

‘No.’

Enjolras cast his eyes down. It was evident he wasn’t going to elaborate.

‘Were you doing it to music then?’

‘Music? I hear no… Oh you mean music in here!’ said Enjolras, tapping the side of his head ‘No. I just… Ben, look, I know it’s silly. I do.’

Feuilly shook his head.

‘I have been friends with Prouvaire, Bahorel and the rest of them for years. In the course of those years I have witnessed Jehan trying to out-weird de Nerval and his lobster-walking stunt more than once, Combeferre setting his flat on fire or blowing it up in the name of science at least twice, Bahorel and Courfeyrac organising a… soirée, or so they called it, inside the Catacombs just for the hell of it… Do you honestly think I’m going to judge you over’ he waved his hand around, trying to encapsulate what he’s just seen ‘Spinning around in the privacy of your room?’

Enjolras smiled bashfully, coming to sit by the side of his bed.

‘Thank you. Ah, but you know how it is – I’m supposed to be the sensible one.’

‘Between the nine of us, maybe. You may have to give up the title to me now!’ said Feuilly with a sly smirk.

Enjolras gave him a sidelong glance.

‘You? Monsieur Benjamin ‘ _We were talking about marmalade production in Nice, but let me bring up Poland_ ’ Feuilly? Monsieur ‘ _Should be resting but spends his time carving out graffiti_ ’ Feuilly? I’m sorry my friend, but my place as ‘the sensible one’ is secure.’

‘Oh shut it, will you?’ Feuilly elbowed him in the side, but he was laughing ‘Tell you what? We’ll keep tabs and have a rematch once we reach Kraków.’

Enjolras nodded solemnly and held out his hand. Feuilly shook it, fighting to keep an equally serious face. He failed.

***

Feuilly wasn’t much of a hiker. The longest he’s ever spent on the road was moving from Toulouse to Paris, and that took him over a month – stopping for days and weeks every now and then, doing odd jobs until he had the money to go on. And it most definitely didn’t involve climbing mountains.

He had to admit they were beautiful – majestic cliffs rising above a sea of green, shafts of light piercing through the canopies, mist rolling in lazy drifts at the foot of the trunks.

Oak gave way to beech, beech surrendered to pine. Up here the ground was covered in a thick carpet of fallen needles which drank up the noise of their feet, covering the travellers in silence.

Nights were a nightmare. Even when it wasn’t his turn to keep watch Feuilly could barely sleep. He gave up all pretences and spent the nights burrowed in Enjolras’ arms. The trees, instead of cutting up the space like he hoped they would, towered over him like the pillars of a dark, forbidding cathedral. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, and should he let his guard down for a split second only, it would crawl forth and drag him away, out into the darkness. He hoped he would get used to it, but he did not. His apprehension grew with each passing day, his fear of the night spilling out into the daytime. It did not let up even when they finally crossed over to Bohemia and started to descend on the other side of the mountain range.

Enjolras has been mostly silent these days, but Feuilly didn’t mind at all – he was in a less than talkative mood himself, having spent most of the time contemplating their future. Which at the moment looked neither bright, nor long. He was starting to feel that even if the actual dangers of the forest didn’t take them, sooner or later his poor panicked heart hearth would simply give up.

Feuilly was so lost in his morose thoughts he didn’t notice that Enjolras stopped until he bumped into his outstretched arm. He shot a questioning glance at him – Enjolras didn’t speak up, only raised a finger to his lips in a hushing motion.

Feuilly frowned and stopped to listen – and sure enough, from some way in front of them, from beyond a sharp twist of the path, slightly muffled by the thick layer of leaves and undergrowth, he could pick up the sounds of shouting – and then a gunshot.

Enjolras ducked down, drew his gun and crept – as quietly as he could – towards the source of the sounds. Feuilly wanted to object but Enjolras was already off, and Feuilly didn’t want to either lose sight of him or having to talk out loud and risk being noticed by whoever had that gun – so he sighed and crawled after him.

He caught up with Enjolras, who was crouching behind some bushes and rocks, staring down at the relatively wide road that unexpectedly opened before them.

They have arrived at quite the scene, only a couple of feet away from them: a stage coach, held up by four men, obviously bandits. The driver, dead from a headshot wound, was laying by the roadside. One of the men was holding a pistol to the head of what appeared to be a wealthy gentleman, backed up against the side of the coach. Two others were busy dragging the other passengers out of the coach.

Feuilly and Enjolras shared a glance. They were so close to the men they felt like they could reach out and touch them. All there was between them were a line of shrubs and a short, but steep slope.

They didn’t need words to communicate their accord: they would not interfere. Some aristos being forced to part with their riches just wasn’t worth the risk.

…That was until one of the ruffians succeeded in dragging a lady and a tiny, crying child out of the coach. The gentleman tried to struggle, to go to the woman, but a bandit snatched the child, and pointed a gun at her. The man put up his hands and sank to his knees at once. The two bandits who weren’t menacing him or the child turned their attention to the woman, trying to force her to the ground, laughing and shouting as they tore at her clothes.

Enjolras and Feuilly flung forward in perfect sync. They flew out from their hideout, right at the armed bandits. Feuilly slammed into the man holding the little girl, knocking him to the ground.

The bandit, too stunned to react, went down without resistance, allowing Feuilly to wrestle away his gun – only to have someone immediately grab his hand and try to seize the weapon. The gang recovered quickly, and now Feuilly was grappling with two of them. Somewhere behind him a gun was fired, then another one. Feuilly threw himself back into the arms of the man behind him, and used his momentum and temporary support to kick the one in front of him in the stomach.

…Which seemed like a good idea at the moment, but it also gave his other attacker a firm grip on him, even as they both staggered backwards – and fell. The bandit’s feet caught in something and the two men came tumbling down. The bandit quickly rolled over, pinning Feuilly to the ground, reaching for the gun Feuilly was still holding – and then abruptly released him.

Feuilly looked up – the lady was standing above him, her sleeve splattered with blood, tiny knife in hand, staring down at the bandit. Who in turn was writhing on the ground, gurgling, desperately clutching at his sliced throat, as if he could keep his rushing blood from draining away.

Feuilly scrambled to his feet – Four figures were lying on the ground, the little girly crying, huddled at the wheel of the coach, the well-dressed gentleman struggling with the reins of the horses, trying to keep them from bolting. Something rustled the bushes – the last bandit sprinting to safety.

Feuilly took a better look at the bodies on the ground. Only three of them were highwaymen.

The fourth was Enjolras.

Feuilly rushed to his side and fell to his knees. He was vaguely aware of the gentleman shouting something behind him, but he only had eyes for his friend. Enjolras was alive but pale, face scrunched up with pain, blood staining his clothes on his side.

Feuilly froze. He wanted to do so many things all at once – pull the clothes away to get a look at the wound, find something to press down on it, to bandage it, to pull Enjolras off the road, to…

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t move or even say a word, he just knelt there, hands awkwardly frozen mid-air…

It was the woman’s scream that snapped him out of his stupor.

‘ _János, a fiúkat csak nem hagyja itt?!_ ’

He had no idea what she said, but only a split second later the gentleman was at their side, reaching under Enjolras’ knees, gesturing at Feuilly.

Feuilly didn’t need any more detailed explanation, he quickly gathered Enjolras’ torso into his arms and began backing towards the coach. The two of them quickly bundled the injured man inside, beside the lady and the child, and in a flurry of coat and shawl the gentleman was already gone, hopping up into the driver’s seat.

The already agitated horses shot forward as if chased by a pack of wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Today this territory belongs to Saxony again.  
> **Bill Shakespeare


End file.
